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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/24065110">infinity</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/hellstrider/pseuds/hellstrider'>hellstrider</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>Scars 'verse [8]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Game of Thrones (TV)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Ficlet, Hurt/Comfort, Light Angst, M/M, Nightmares, PTSD, Porn with Feelings, Scars</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-05-08</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-05-08</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-02 19:14:46</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Mature</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>2,515</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/24065110</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/hellstrider/pseuds/hellstrider</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>He sees it, sometimes.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Tormund Giantsbane/Jon Snow</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>Scars 'verse [8]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/series/1387801</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>16</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>174</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>infinity</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>just a small thing to flex my writing muscle again. it's been a long three months. </p><p>scars verse</p><p>more to come</p><p>inspired by the song infinity by jaymes young</p><p>tumblr: billyhargrovens<br/>witcher tumblr: thebardjaskier</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p></p><div class="">
  <p></p>
  <div class="">
    <p>He sees it, sometimes.</p>
  </div>
  <div class="">
    <p>Jon, glassy-eyed, lifeless. Ivory skin going grey as his ruby-red blood soaked the snow beneath his dark curls. </p>
  </div>
  <div class="">
    <p>Not that he’d <em>been</em> there. No - he’d gone south with his people to get them somewhere <em>safer</em>, away from the dead that walked and the crows cloaked in black alike. </p>
  </div>
  <div class="">
    <p>Tormund was <em>not</em> a man that lingered long over <em>regret</em>. It wasn’t in his nature, not in <em>any</em> Wildling’s nature - save for Mance, but then, that was the burden of leadership, was it not?</p>
  </div>
  <div class="">
    <p>Regret is a thing with dull fangs. It bites down but it’s never sharp enough to break the skin - which might bring some kind of relief. Instead, there’s only pressure - a weight that never lifts, a thing leaves behind a patina of bruises that no eye could see.</p>
  </div>
</div><div class="">
  <p>Regret steals the air and replaces it with wool. It makes his limbs ache and his teeth grind. It feels as though he’s keeping stones on his tongue.</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>It is a cage - this kind of <em>regret</em> - that keeps getting smaller and smaller. It’s a set of chains that he can’t escape, even though -</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>“I don’t think I’ve ever seen you up before me.”</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>Fingertips light on his spine, right over a slick scar he won when he was barely old enough to call himself a man. Jon traces the edge of the scar, a shape he’s memorized; a soft scratch of stubble rasps over the starburst from a bolt Jon put in Tormund himself, then a warm press of lips, and the Wildling lets out a low, quiet rumble.</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>He turns away from the fire to look down into steel grey eyes. Gently, Tormund cups Jon’s jaw, thumbs over the scar that laces down his cheek. Had he been there when Jon won it? His gaze drops to Jon’s bare chest, where the pink, glossy wound of his murder still marks him. Will always mark him.</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>
    <em>And would you have saved him from such a fate, Wildling?</em>
  </p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>
    <em>Could you have?</em>
  </p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>“Tormund.”</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>His eyes look almost silver in the firelight. Jon’s lips quirk gently but his brow knits - he knows Tormund better than anyone ever has, reads him as easily as he can the course of battle.</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>Tormund drops his hand to Jon’s chest, covers the hooked scar with a calloused palm, as if he could make it disappear through sheer force of will. He can feel Jon’s heartbeat, strong and steady; his skin is warm, growing hotter as the fire crackles merrily behind them.</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>They’re in their room in Winterfell. </p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>The dead king is <em>gone</em>.</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>The dragons have flown with their lifeless queen across the Narrow Sea.</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>Jon is <em>safe</em>.</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>And yet -</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>He sees it.</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>Sees the dagger sink into Jon’s ivory breast, right down to the thunder of his iron-willed heart. He sees Jon’s moonlit eyes go wide, hears him choke on a gasp that doesn’t quite bury itself deep enough into his lungs. He watches Jon sink to the snow, dripping rubies over pure white. Hears Ghost’s snapping, wretched howl as the Direwolf lifts his head from his furs on the floor and blinks at them with those blood-red eyes.</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>“Where are you?” Jon’s voice burrs against his palm; it’s gentle. Worried. Then, somewhat lighter when he steps closer, sword-worn hands sliding up to cover Tormund’s. </p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>“And here I thought you said I brooded enough for the both of us.”</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>“You <em>do</em>,” Tormund says with an arched brow, voice scraping through his throat. <em>Gods</em>, but he’s beautiful, he thinks as Jon subtly lifts his chin, steely eyes cutting over his Wildling’s face. “Sometimes it spills out of you and finds me.”</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>He smiles easier, these days. Even if there’s war ahead, down to the south, where the castles are red and the chairs are made of blades, Jon Snow smiles easier. Tormund presses his thumb to the corner of Jon’s lips to feel it and Jon turns his head to brush a kiss over the heel of his hand.</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>
    <em>I should have stayed.</em>
  </p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>
    <em>Then you would have died with me.</em>
  </p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>
    <em>A good way to die.</em>
  </p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>“I’d do it again,” Jon murmurs then, because he knows how to coax anger from the pit of Tormund’s gut, knows just what to say to stir up a flame in his chest. Tormund lets out a soft burr and Jon moves with him as he steps forward and hooks an arm around Jon’s waist. </p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>“<em>Careful</em>, little crow,” he warns as he hefts Jon up from the floor. “I’m <em>shit</em> at sulking, but I’m good at being angry.”</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>“It’s a bit unfair, isn’t it?” Jon asks, knees pressing to Tormund’s ribs, “that you can say that dying by my side would be a good way to die, but<em> I</em> can’t say that I’d take the blade again for you.”</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>It is. He knows it. And <em>yet</em> -</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>“I <em>told</em> you, Jon Snow,” Tormund says as he bears Jon back to their bed, as he puts the bulk of his body between the little crow and the rest of the world, “you’re not to die until I say so.”</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>Jon huffs and reaches up to tug gently on Tormund’s beard, white teeth flashing in a brief grin when the Wildling growls and ducks to nuzzle into his palm. </p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>“Sometimes I think we might not’ve needed the Red priestess at all,” Jon says quietly, “you would’ve found a way to will me back to life yourself.”</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>The words are a balm to the bruises that the dull fangs of Tormund’s useless regret leave behind. His throat goes thick as Jon cards a hand through his wild red hair, as his little crow gazes up at him with a fierce, <em>immovable</em> devotion, and, <em>Gods</em>, this -</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>Now, <em>see</em> - Tormund doesn’t know overmuch about the petty wars of the southern kingdoms, but he’s heard enough to know that many died so Jon Snow’s sire could have the woman he wanted, the woman that would die to give life to the divine thing beneath him.</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>And when Jon Snow <em>looks</em> at him, Tormund understands the petty wars of the southern kingdoms. He understands that thousands had to die for Jon Snow’s sire to get what he wanted, and maybe that makes him <em>cruel</em>, makes him <em>unworthy</em> of the divine thing beneath him, but - to <em>lie</em> about it, to pretend he <em>didn’t</em> understand...</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>“Stay with me, Tormund.”</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>Jon guides one hand to a bare hip, molds it to the shape of the muscle beneath his warm skin. Soft, dry lips press to the corner of the Wildling’s mouth as Jon sinks a hand into his hair, fingers curling <em>tight</em>, so fucking <em>tight</em>. It’s a command and a plea, an order and a request; embers begin to burn in the pit of Tormund’s gut as Jon noses over his cheekbone, lithe body undulating beneath him.</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p><em>Always</em>, he wants to say; <em>always, don’t be a damn fool. </em></p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>But he <em>doesn’t</em>, because -</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>Well.</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p><em>Always</em> falls short, doesn’t it?</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>It’s not nearly <em>enough</em>. Not <em>desperate</em> enough, not <em>devoted</em> enough. <em>Gods</em>, he feels as if he’s going fucking <em>mad</em>; Jon slides his hand down the back of Tormund’s neck and around to his broad chest, where his heart beats like a damned war drum and surges in its cage of bone as if it means to break free and bury itself behind Jon’s ribs.</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>He’d nearly fallen to his knees, when the narrow-faced Crow had come to tell them of Jon Snow’s death. It would’ve been the second time one Jon Snow had brought him to his damn knees. Somehow, he’d stayed standing. Somehow, he hadn’t broken the skull of the narrow-faced Crow. </p>
</div><div class="">
  <p><em>Somehow</em>, he’d made it to Castle Black. Tormund doesn’t remember it. Doesn’t remember the ride back to the fortress buried in the Wall, or the fight in the courtyard. All he remembers is seeing Jon on the stone table, white skin gone grey, black curls tacky with blood, fierce eyes shut forevermore. </p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>They would’ve had to <em>burn</em> him, until nothing remained of Jon Snow but ash.</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>Tormund swallows down the nigh inhuman surge of anger the thought brings as he traces the edge of the hooked scar on Jon’s chest. He puts his mouth to it, tastes the phantom tang of blood as he traces it with his tongue until Jon’s thighs grip his hips and his breath starts to quicken. </p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>And it’s <em>easy</em>, so fucking easy to lose himself in the way Jon feels; in the way his skin smells, the way Jon’s breath hitches as Tormund bows over him and presses him into the furs, the way his chin lifts in such a show of <em>trust</em> when Tormund frames his throat with one huge hand. </p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>A wild urge to <em>bite down</em> takes hold of Tormund, brief but so strong he nearly does. Nearly breaks the skin where the blade did, to put his own mark there instead. His thumb finds another scar, the one over Jon’s hip. Moves to the next. He’s memorized them, spent hours pouring over them while Jon sleeps - he could find them blind.</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>There is no world but <em>this</em>, Tormund thinks, as Jon strokes down his sides; there is no world <em>without</em> this.</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>Not for him.</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>The Wildling reaches down with a seeking hand and finds Jon still slick between his legs; his touch is a question, one Jon answers by digging his heels into the backs of Tormund’s thighs, hips straining up as he murmurs the Wildling’s name in his ear, deep voice shooting right down to Tormund’s aching cock.</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>And it’s easy to lose himself as he sinks into Jon, as he makes their bodies one at the silent command of the divine thing beneath him, the man that Tormund knows he’d bleed the world dry for - and maybe that makes him cruel, makes him some kind of evil, makes him more akin to the dead king than anything else, and maybe it makes him unworthy of Jon Snow, but regret was <em>never</em> something that Tormund lingered long over, and this...</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>This might not be the exception he thought it was, because Jon Snow is alive, and Tormund’s carried the regret of leaving him in Castle Black for so long, <em>so fucking long</em>, but as Jon gasps his name against the Wildling’s tongue, he feels the stones of that regret start to crumble, and as Jon drags pleading hands up over his heaving ribs, Tormund can feel the chains start to loosen, and as Jon Snow’s heartbeat begins to echo through his chest, Tormund lets the madness of his devotion overwhelm any guilt left clinging to his bones.</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>
    <em>Stay with me.</em>
  </p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>
    <em>Always.</em>
  </p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>But that’s not enough.</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>
    <em>You would’ve died with me.</em>
  </p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>
    <em>A good way to die.</em>
  </p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>Soon, they leave for the red castle and the chair of blades.</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>Soon, they leave for the final war. </p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>Soon, the fate of Jon Snow would be decided - and whether he lived or died, Tormund Giantsbane would be at his side. Whether into the dark or the light, he would <em>follow</em> Jon Snow, because there was no world without this, no world without him, and Tormund <em>knows</em> it, because he’s seen the world without him, has been forced to breathe that empty air before, and he’d rather <em>die</em> and be reborn as a monster than suffer that <em>ever</em> again.</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>“I’m here. <em>Feel me</em>, Tormund, I’m right here,” Jon breathes against Tormund’s ear; everything smells of <em>them</em>, of sweat and seed, of need and salt. He moves slow, wanting nothing more than to make this last for as long as he can - it’s not lost on him that any moment could be their last, that this could be snatched from him just as swiftly as it had been the first time, when he should have <em>stayed</em>, when he should have died at Jon’s side.</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>But...</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>Jon is <em>alive</em>. </p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>Against every odd, Jon Snow <em>lives</em>.</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>In defiance of the Gods themselves, Jon Snow still breathes.</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>
    <em>Would you challenge them to try and take him from you again, Wildling?</em>
  </p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>
    <em>Could you challenge a God?</em>
  </p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>Tormund splays a hand over Jon’s muscled stomach, feels it rise with a gasping breath as he thrusts <em>deeper</em>, as he starts to fuck into Jon with purpose. His moans break as Tormund moves, cock weeping fat pearls over the trail of dark hair leading down from his navel as a healthy flush spreads over his cheeks, bleeds down his chest.</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p><em>Gods mean nothing to beasts, </em>he thinks; <em>and that is what you make of me, Jon Snow; a beast.</em></p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>He puts his teeth to the mark on Jon’s chest.</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>“Tormund - <em>fuck</em>, love, please -”</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>He wants to bite down.</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>
    <em>Greedy. Fucking greedy.</em>
  </p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>The Wildling slides his hand lower, <em>lower</em>, until he’s curling practiced fingers around Jon’s slick cock, velvet-soft skin hot as a brand against his calloused palm. The scent of want and need overwhelms his senses, slams full-force into his chest as Jon’s body goes taut beneath him, fingertips digging into the meat of his back as he spills his seed over his clenching stomach with a mangled, <em>shattered</em> cry.</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>Tormund burrs low as he slows his hips and goes still, cock still buried deep in the wet heat of Jon’s body; he nuzzles down the bridge of the crow’s nose, catches the soft laugh Jon lets out between his teeth. He tastes like heat and mint, like the wine they’d had in their bath before bed. He tastes like smoke and cedar, like snow and ice, like fire over water. </p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>“I love you, little crow,” Tormund murmurs, throat thick with it; he slides a thumb over Jon’s chin, just under his lips. “Where <em>you</em> go,<em> I</em> go. You understand that, don’t you? Wherever you walk, I will follow you, Jon Snow. Into the light or the dark.”</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>Jon’s steel-grey eyes flicker over the Wildling’s face, and his lips quirk with the slightest, most fleeting of smiles as he reaches up to slide a thumb over the arch of Tormund’s cheekbone. </p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>“You leapt from a <em>dragon</em> to get to me north of the Wall,” Jon says quietly then, and Tormund can’t stop the grin that crosses his face. “I think I understand you, love.”</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p><em>“Mm,</em>” the Wildling burrs, nosing over Jon’s cheek. The scent of him is thick and heady, musky and <em>so</em>, so sweet. Slowly, Tormund kisses his way down the slope of Jon’s throat and over the crest of his collarbone until he reaches a pool of pearly white; Jon curses quietly when he laves his tongue through the mess, gathering the taste of the crow like it’s the fine wine southerners are so damn obsessed with.</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>Carefully, Tormund rolls his hips. Jon breathes out in relief, head falling back as he slides clinging fingers into the wild toss of Tormund’s hair. He holds fast, holds tight, as Tormund puts his teeth to the mark on his chest, right over Jon’s fierce, unstoppable heartbeat; there’s proof of life on his tongue, his lips, thundering against his teeth. </p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>And it’s <em>so</em> easy to lose himself in this - in <em>Jon</em> - because Jon is the only world that <em>matters</em>.</p>
</div>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>songs:<br/>infinity - jaymes young<br/>one last moment of you - ursine vulpine</p></blockquote></div></div>
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